


First Impressions

by Gang_Aft_Agley



Series: Superheroes, Scooby Style [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Baby!Giles, Blood, Gen, Ripper, and bruises, baby!Phil, just a bloody nose, not graphic though, poor wannabe badasses, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 12:32:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7315357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gang_Aft_Agley/pseuds/Gang_Aft_Agley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first meeting between Rupert Giles and Phil Coulson took place when the latter jumped in to save the former from some vampires.</p>
<p>It's not nearly as badass as it sounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Impressions

The first thing Rupert Giles thought after the vampire tossed him face-first into a brick wall was, _Ouch._

The second (once his head had cleared enough to register anything deeper than the immediate pain and disorientation) was, _I need new friends_.  Because, of course, it had been Ethan's brilliant idea to walk home from the club at 3 am, instead of taking a cab like sensible human beings, or at least the Tube. To add insult to injury, he had apparently run for it as soon as the attack started, leaving a somewhat wobbly Ripper to face three vampires all by his lonesome.

Well, _shit_.

It was one thing to know in the abstract that your best friend was an opportunistic coward, and to laugh at his tipsy admission during Drink the Truth that yes, _of course_ he would run for it at the first sign of trouble: _I love you, Ripper, but I love me more, and I don't have to outrun a vampire, I just have to outrun the rest of you poor sods._ And everyone had laughed and had another drink and then asked the next question because, well, that was Ethan Rayne for you.

It was quite another thing altogether to realize that _he wasn't fucking kidding_. It hadn't been a joke, Ethan really _had_ scarpered, and because vampires were inherently lazy, they hadn't bothered to give chase, not when they had _him_ , semi-stunned as he was, to focus on. Rather a sobering thought, not that Ripper really _needed_ that side effect at the moment: imminent death did tend to burn off alcohol in a hurry.

Groaning, he pushed himself into a semi-upright position, using the wall behind him for leverage.  Things could have been worse: the two stakes in his sleeves hadn't fallen out at the club (or during his abrupt introduction to the alley's masonry), and he still remembered most of what his father and the Council had spent years trying to hammer into him.  Even so, the odds of one human (even a trained one) defeating three vampires weren’t good under the best of circumstances, which these certainly were not. He wasn't exactly steady on his feet at the moment, his ears were still ringing and his nose was still gushing blood.

Ripper braced himself for what would likely prove to be an exercise in futility, a stake in each hand and a fully resigned expression twisting his lips.  If he made it through this, he was going to kick Ethan’s ass from here to Sussex, and if he didn’t, well … then he’d just have to make do with haunting Ethan for all eternity.

Fortunately, the American (a somewhat gangly teenager in a battered leather jacket) chose that particular moment to make his appearance, screaming like a banshee and hefting a sizeable length of PVC pipe as he charged down the alley.

Brave of him, but ultimately futile; even _impalement_ with PVC pipe would do little more than inconvenience a vampire, and it would take Slayer strength to accomplish that feat.  Certainly, the stranger didn't have the strength or heft to do so: he was several years younger than Ripper, about twenty pounds lighter, and a few inches shorter.  Just a kid, really, a kid wearing a … Ripper squinted in disbelief … was that a _Captain America t-shirt_ under his jacket?

It’s strange, how tiny details will stick out in a moment of crisis, the odd little things your brain will choose to focus on instead of impending mortal peril, but yes, yes it was.  

The poor clueless idiot swung the pipe like a baseball bat, and brought it down with an almighty _thwack_ across the back of the nearest vampire. While that would have worked pretty well had Ripper’s attackers been human, said vampire didn't even _flinch_ at the impact of heavy-duty plastic on undead flesh and bone.  Instead, it turned around with a snarl, annoyed at being interrupted from its contemplation of a tasty Ripper-shaped treat, and effortlessly backhanded the kid into the nearest dumpster, where he crumpled to the ground with a moan. 

So much for rescue from _that_ quarter. 

Despite its unpromising start, the kid's courageous idiocy did manage to serve a purpose: stalling the vampires from ripping out Ripper's (ha! he'd laugh about that one later) throat for a few crucial moments. Moments that allowed his head to clear a little bit, giving him fractionally more of a fighting chance to save both their skins.

More important to their ultimate survival, however, was the shriek of rage the kid let out as he came charging to the rescue. By some miracle, the Slayer had been patrolling nearby, and the commotion had alerted her that something was amiss in this _particular_ alley, rather than just in the general vicinity.  Otherwise … well, she probably would have eventually caught and staked the vampires while making her rounds, but not before certainly Ripper and possibly the kid (or someone else, or several someones for that matter) had been killed, drained, and perhaps turned.

It would take many years (and the reading of Neil Gaiman's _Neverwhere_ \- if the man hadn't based his description of Hunter's fighting style on first-hand experience of a Slayer or two, he'd eat his hat) before Rupert Giles would find adequate words to describe a Slayer performing her duties, particularly against multiple opponents, but he had at least _seen_ it before.  The kid obviously hadn't, and consequently he looked stunned, terrified, and more than a little awe-struck. However, he'd also managed to maintain both bladder and bowel control, despite the unexpected confrontation with something out of his worst nightmares.  Ripper had to give him kudos for that; a surprisingly large number of would-be vampire victims _didn't_.

The fight was over in a matter of minutes, the Slayer emerging victorious – he expected nothing less.   Ripper was naturally grateful not to be, y’know, _dead_ (or possibly a vampire himself), of course, but it was still stung. If this weren't _the_ most humiliating night of his life (having been saved by an ignorant teenager, a Slayer, and sheer dumb luck), it was definitely in the top ten.

Stifling a groan, Ripper put his stakes away and pulled up the hem of his t-shirt, using it to soak up the blood still oozing sluggishly from his nose; it was already a lost cause, anyway.

Now came his least favorite part: thanks and explaining things to civilians.

Shit.

* * *

_That's it, I'm dead … and possibly imagining things,_ was Phil Coulson's initial thought as the world spun around him after he had been unceremoniously tossed up against something hard, metallic and smelly. 

He'd _known_ it was a really stupid move, even as he grabbed a makeshift weapon from a nearby pile of trash and rushed into the alley, but he couldn't _not_  step in. Especially not when one guy was getting whaled on by three others, and _definitely_ coming off the worse for it.  Probably why he'd gotten his ass kicked so many times in high school, this unfortunate chivalrous instinct.

At least, he preferred to think of it as _chivalrous_ , or even _heroic_ , rather than _stupid, masochistic, meddlesome_ , or _goddamn suicidal, Cheese_ , as his family and friends had been wont to call him when he came home sporting scraped knuckles, black eyes, swollen lips, and the occasional concussion.

He probably had a concussion _now_ , considering that serious head trauma was the only rational explanation for what he had stumbled upon: the guy he'd intended to rescue seemed normal enough, to be sure, but his attackers ... not so much.   All three had grotesquely contorted faces, ridged and creased in an entirely unnatural fashion, and that was leaving aside the glowing eyes and extremely prominent fangs.  None of them spoke, only snarled in a purely animalistic fashion, and seemed more amused and annoyed than concerned about his interference.

(For the moment, he was steadfastly ignoring the fact that he had seen the faces of the assailants _before_ one of them had smacked him into a trash bin with obviously superhuman strength and rattled his brain; to think otherwise led down a road of madness and psychosis that Phil was not _quite_ ready to follow just yet.)

What happened next only further convinced him that he was hallucinating due to severe brain injury.

A piercing whistle behind him snapped his attention away from the other four (now very blurry and out-of-focus) people in the alley and towards the slim, slight figure who now appeared in the entrance to the main road.  She - for the individual was obviously female, despite being little more than a fuzzy silhouette framed by the orange glow of the streetlights - she cocked her head to the side, clucking her tongue disapprovingly.

“Didn’t your mothers teach you _not_ to play with your food?”

The three attackers stiffened and snarled before dropping into nearly identical defensive crouches. _They_ clearly sensed danger, as incredible as that seemed to Phil at the time.  The newcomer beckoned them forward with a mocking little gesture of challenge and contempt, and then they charged her _en masse_. Phil halfway expected her to turn tail and run, but no, she whirled to meet them, moving faster than he had believed humanly possible.  It was ... like nothing he had ever seen before, a brutal ballet of strength and speed and aggression.

He could only compare the fight to the grainy, black-and-white footage he had seen of Captain America in combat in high school history class, and found it a poor second compared to what he was witnessing now.   Mostly because watching a seemingly-ordinary young woman easily fend off three clearly superhuman opponents was a lot stranger and more disconcerting than seeing a muscle-bound man whale on heavily armored Hydra goons.  It just ... didn't _fit_ with his expectations of reality.

Then, of course, he _really_ couldn't believe his eyes when she stabbed her opponents in the chest with what looked like a very large knife ... and instead of falling down dead, they exploded into clouds of dust.

Yep, _definitely_ the head trauma.

* * *

The Slayer finished her work, not even breathing heavily, and nodded at Ripper in recognition.   Cursing silently to himself, he nodded back - just his luck (good or bad, he wasn't sure which yet) that the current Slayer knew him by sight, having been one of the Potentials the Council had identified early and gathered under its wing.  Much younger than he had been, of course, but they'd had a few lessons together before he’d abandoned his training, and no telling _what_ stories had been told about him after he'd left. 

At least _this_ Chosen One had been one of the more sensible candidates, skewing away from silly and idealistic and more towards pragmatic and clear-headed. Still, she was _The_ Slayer, and as such, would more or less toe the company line.  Well, no hope for it now - he'd have to brazen things out somehow, and hope for the best.  He could only pray that he could still inspire some of the awe that the Council attempted to instill in the Potentials towards all of the Watchers, even the ones in training.

Dropping the hem of his now ruined shirt, Ripper dropped a courtly and somewhat exaggerated bow, surprising a giggle out of the girl - always a good sign. 

"Thank you, Eleanor."  She smiled and waved his thanks aside with an air of supreme unconcern, tucking few stray bits of hair back behind her ear. 

"Don't thank me, thank the kid and the Powers That Be; I was just doing my job." 

"Even so, I _am_ grateful _._ And I would be even more so if...."

"If I were to leave your name out my report?  Done; it's less work and effort for me anyway.  Your dad would rake me over the coals for details if I mentioned you, which is something I'd rather avoid, thank you anyway." There was tolerant amusement in the Slayer's voice; he heaved an inward sigh of relief.

A groan interrupted them; Ripper's would-be rescuer was beginning to regain consciousness.

The kid rolled over and sat up, still halfway propped against the dumpster, coughing and choking on vampire dust and gingerly feeling the side of his face.  He looked stunned and more than a little out of it, but the spark of intelligence in his eyes told Ripper that he wouldn't be so easily dismissed with the usual "local louts on hard-core drugs" hand-wave.

"What _were_  those guys?" he stammered, looking around with an air of bewilderment.

Giles and Eleanor exchanged glances: notably, he’d asked _what_ their attackers were, rather than _who_. An astute lad, then, one who’d already twigged to the fact that the whole encounter was even more out of the ordinary than it seemed. Somehow, they'd have to satisfy his curiosity _and_ prevent him from going to the police.  The Slayer sighed deeply and bent over to grab the kid's arm, glancing imperiously back over her shoulder at Ripper, who was still frozen in dismay - he'd hoped to avoid this part of the ordeal.

"Come on, Dropout, help me get him up.  Since he jumped in to save _your_  sorry behind, I think he deserves something of an explanation as a reward for his stupid heroics.  There's a cafe around the corner that I sometimes use for a rendezvous; it's filthy and disgusting, and the coffee's more than a bit like making love in a canoe, but they also don't ask questions, and won't care that _you're_  covered in blood, or that Yankee Doodle Dandy here can't walk in a straight line yet, and will have a pretty impressive shiner in a few minutes."

Ripper helped her haul the kid to his feet, nodding in approval at her description of their destination as they propped him up between them, one arm slung over each of their shoulders.

"That _does_ rather tip the balance in its favor, if we must break out the entire 'world is older than you know' spiel."

"Also ... pie.  I find that pie makes explaining the impossible much better, and I think their pie might be sprinkled with crack, however revolting their coffee may be." 

"Especially if his mouth's too full to ask questions until we finish."

"You're buying."  Ripper sighed in muted resignation.

"I suppose it would be petty not to, under the circumstances."

"Your life isn't worth more than coffee and pie?"  She was teasing, he could tell, and Ripper was surprised to realize how much he'd _missed_ that kind of casual banter - not that Ethan didn't tease him, but his taunts were always pointed and barbed, _just_ casually cruel enough to be painful rather than amusing.  Verbal pinpricks, rather than caresses.

Yet another reason why he needed new friends.

* * * 

Phil was _mostly_ moving under his own power by the time they arrived at the grimy, dilapidated cafe about a block away, even if he was still wobbly enough to need the older man's steadying hand on his shoulder.  His somewhat incoherent questions _en route_ had been dismissed curtly with promises of explanations, coffee and pie: not necessarily in that order.

He was unceremoniously plunked in a chair at a sticky, spotted table, and told to stay put and stay _quiet_ ; he was off-kilter enough that he obeyed while the other man wandered off to the men's room to wash the blood off his face, and the girl gave their order to a waitress possessed of a sublime (albeit rather surly) unconcern for their battered and bruised appearances.

Weak, truly _vile_ coffee settled his nerves and stomach a bit, but _a bit_ wasn’t much in the face of the impassive silence, broken only by the drumming of the girl’s fingernails, and the ceramic skitter of pie plates sliding across the table.

On his return, Ripper (for so he had introduced himself) sat down across the table from Phil, straightened his shoulders, and folded his hands in a professorial manner rather at odds with his pierced ear and torn, bloodstained t-shirt.  He looked down his nose as if peering over the rims of a pair of invisible glasses, and Phil could suddenly imagine this man, older, grayer and tweedier, presenting information to a lecture hall full of students, keeping order with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and withering sarcasm.

"For the purposes of our talk, here are the rules: Listen, say nothing, remember everything you saw tonight, and eat the pie. I am aware that what I am about to reveal will seem utterly impossible; I assure you, it is all true, and the evidence of your own eyes is the proof, however unlikely.”

Phil considered this proposition. The pie smelled mouthwateringly good (apple, possibly), and it was covered in what appeared to be – yes, definitely was – _real_ whipped cream. He nodded and picked up his fork.

"Very good.  I’m sure you will have questions as we go along; save them until I finish. Now, let us begin with the primary tenet that the world is much stranger than you've been led to believe, and that vampires ... blood-sucking, demon-of-the-night _vampires_... are very real.  That's what you saw tonight, what you tried to save me from in the alley.  For as long as there have been vampires, there has also been the Slayer: one girl with the power and strength to fight vampires, demons, and other things that go bump in the night."  He gestured to the girl on his left, who smiled brightly and finger-waved at Phil with a kind of mocking, pseudo-cheerfulness.

"Hi."  Her eyes sparkled in gleeful anticipation, and Phil felt the earth's axis wobble in a way that had nothing to do with his lingering dizziness. Ripper was watching him intently, eyes almost boring into him, and he seemed to be waiting for Phil to do _something_ : to scream, or cry, or throw his hands up in the dramatically and exclaim, “That’s im _pos_ sible _!”_

Phil didn’t really _do_ dramatic, though, and the expected emotional upsurge simply never materialized; numbness in the aftermath of an adrenaline rush, perhaps. He turned Ripper’s words over in his head, poking and prodding them, the way a child toys with a loose tooth. If they _were_ true, then … and those were some pretty horrifying implications right there, so he resolutely filed those thoughts away to deal with later. Reacting could wait; he needed more information.

“Huh.”

As unbelievable as it seemed, the idea that there were vampires out there, running around in … well, probably not broad daylight, more like broad _moon_ light… it made sense. Too much sense, and suddenly bits and pieces of the world clicked into place, rather the way they had when he first found out that Steve Rogers had been a real, live human being and not just a comic book character. _More things in heaven and earth, Horatio …_

Taking a deep breath, Phil bit back the questions that threatened to bubble up out of his throat, forked up a bite of pie, chewed it deliberately, and swallowed with an air of serenity that he didn't entirely feel. 

"Go on.  I'm listening...."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks once again to the lovely [twangcat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/twangcat/pseuds/twangcat) for the inspiration for this series, and to [silentawe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/silentawe) for cheering me on!


End file.
